


This Provincial Life

by htebazytook



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: AU, Challenge Response, Crack, First Time, Literary Allusions, M/M, Romance, Slash, disney allusions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-22
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-04 03:54:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU.  Sooo this is more crackfic than sweeping harlequin romance, I'm afraid.  Features gratuitous allusions to Disney and/or girly Victorian novels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Provincial Life

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt for [](http://pintoharlequin.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://pintoharlequin.livejournal.com/)**pintoharlequin** : _After spending years in prison for a crime he did not commit, Chris Pine accepts the proposal of cynical Zachary Quinto, Viscount D'Aubrey, who offers him parole in exchange for becoming his lover._

**Title:** This Provincial Life  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:** <\--  
 **Pairing:** Zach/Chris  
 **Author's Notes:** Written for this prompt for [](http://pintoharlequin.livejournal.com/profile)[**pintoharlequin**](http://pintoharlequin.livejournal.com/): _After spending years in prison for a crime he did not commit, Chris Pine accepts the proposal of cynical Zachary Quinto, Viscount D'Aubrey, who offers him parole in exchange for becoming his lover._  
 **Summary:** AU. Sooo this is more crackfic than sweeping harlequin romance, I'm afraid. Features gratuitous allusions to Disney and/or girly Victorian novels.

 

 

> dear mr. pine,

> i have followed your trial—and indeed, you—with interest these past several months, and i have consequently put together this proposal for you.

> please note that this is of course purely voluntary on your part, but i'd like to help you. and, i can.

> this offer, should you choose to accept it, is absolutely no strings attached, and you can back out at any time, but let me be frank: i will negotiate your parole and pay your surely extensive legal bills, all on one condition—that you live with me as my personal companion.

> let me say that again. "personal companion". get it?

> obviously you are under no obligation, here, however i would like to stress that i am indeed fabulously wealthy. you would have practically your own wing of the house, as well as 24-hour access to the grounds' facilities and a theoretically unlimited monthly allowance.

> i also have a pool.

> i look forward to hearing back from you.

> Sincerely,  
>  The Right Honorable  
>  Viscount Quinto of Aubrey 

At first Chris laughs, because, you know. What the fuck?

Then, of course, he starts to think about it.

*

Later, in his cell:

"I'm doing it!" Chris says, sounding increasingly unhinged even to himself. Ben is much more taken aback by this proclamation than a convicted arsonist should be, really, blinking at him blankly from the bottom bunk. "I'm fucking doing it! It's brilliant! Oh my God I am such a whore, this is quite unprecedented . . ."

"If you say so . . . "

"Just means unexpected," Chris says.

"So, what, this is just some horny prince who wants to pay for a piece of your ass?"

"He's a viscount."

Ben nods attentively.

"Kinda like the guy in Moulin Rou—" Chris stops, changes tactics: "Like the Count puppet guy, you know, 'One! Two! AH AH AH!' Sort of thing." It's truly remarkable that Chris hasn't been shanked.

"Right . . . How do you know so much about him, anyway?"

"I looked him up online, dude."

"Aren't there, like, rules against that in here?"

*

It feels disquietingly like the beginning of a horror movie. Chris imagines he can hear some suspiciously cheerful music in the background taper out in a fit of foreshadowing as the town car pulls up to the mansion.

There's a dark figure looming at the top of the stairs, under the shadow of an enormous, pillared door. Well, it's not so much a dark figure as an extremely neon figure in skinny jeans with a shock of dark hair.

Chris takes a moment to contemplate the ridiculousness of the situation, then shrugs, grabs his effects (i.e., kickass shades and a comfy cardigan) and jumps out of the car.

"Greetings and felicitations, My Lord!" Chris says, bowing deeply. "Your mail-order bride doth arriveth."

". . . Yeah. You can just call me Zach."

Chris looks up. Yep, that's the same guy from the internets. He's just a bit less suited up and a bit more, er, flamboyant. Was that politically correct?

Chris follows him up wide marble steps, tries very hard not to gape at the ornateness of the mansion's façade—it looks both cartoonish and sumptuously gothic from this angle.

The gigantic doors part for them menacingly, and Chris gets that horror movie vibe again. Zach's footsteps echo into the foyer and Chris hurries to catch up. Once he's inside, he finds Zach standing between two grand staircases with his hands (miraculously) in his pockets, watching Chris like he's a small animal that's wandered haplessly inside and it is likely to make a break for it.

"Nice," Chris says lamely. He's beginning to wonder if this it is the same Zachary Quinto that had proposed an exchange of freedom for sexual favors in a grammatically deficient letter, all those weeks ago. Chris decides to go for it: "So, do you wanna fuck now or what?"

Zach's eyes could quite easily pass for saucers.

"Too much?"

"Indubitably." Zach glances around, bashful from head to toe.

"I mean, you did solicit me for sex. Just saying."

"Yeah well . . . well, yeah."

Silence stretches. Chris swears he hears actual crickets. "Do you really have a pool?" he says at length, which startles a laugh out of his host. During the awkward silence that ensues, Chris blurts, "I looked you up online while I was in the slammer."

"Aren't there, like, rules against that in there?"

"Ahaha." Chris beams at him desperately. He'd dealt with turf wars and shakedowns, but this is somehow worse.

"So!" Zach says in desperation, sounds as skittish as Chris feels. "Do you want the tour?"

Chris is on the verge of leering and saying something suggestive, but then Zach smiles disarmingly. "Uh . . . yeah, sounds good."

As Zach leads him through stunning room after stunning room—all typical overdone Beverly Hills fare—Chris takes the time to really study him. Zach's too occupied in gesturing at urns and rattling off historical tidbits to take any notice.

Zach looks . . . normal. Not like a viscount, anyway—I mean, he didn't have a mustache _or_ a monocle. Instead, he's all decked out in hilariously hipster attire, casual in look but clearly expensive in price. Chris supposed you had to spend your money on _something_ when you had so much of it, and sex slaves alone weren't gonna get you that nice juicy tax break.

Zach was around Chris's age, so he knew it hadn't been some ancient photograph he'd found online, which was good and all, but it had still thrown Chris a little because he'd been bracing himself to endure the advances of some old lecherous queen.

. . . That probably wasn't politically correct, either.

Anyway, Zach wasn't old. He was tall, dark, and handsome in a unique sort of way. Somehow his nose and eyebrows seemed necessarily bold within the context of his face. His whole demeanor changed easily depending in the light or the angle, contrast between dark eyes and pale skin—from open and kind to brooding and serious.

"So . . . how do you like it so far?"

"It's a nice place," Chris says. "Not as wuthering as I had anticipated . . ."

Zach smiles briefly, and his nervousness is covertly adorable, which isn't a word Chris normally associates with men. And it's not that Zach isn't masculine—he definitely is. Low-voiced and tall and he very clearly works out. He's not some ditzy, waiflike fairy.

. . . Like, at least Chris isn't saying this stuff _out loud_.

"What's up there?" Chris wanders over to a dark, sepulchral hallway Zach's neglected to point out.

Zach seizes him by the arm. "You're not allowed in there. Moving on."

"Ohhh no, dude, come on, you don't get off that easy—what is it?"

"I said, moving on." Zach's dragging him down the hallway now.

"You can't just say that and then not—"

"Looks like I can," Zach says. "Come on—there's something you've gotta see."

Chris sighs. "Yes . . . uh, sir?"

Zach blushes a bit, and Chris watches as 'adorable' flashes across his brain again. "Just Zach, please. God, that is creepy . . . "

Chris laughs. "It kinda is, yeah. Sorry. Zach."

Zach smiles, swift leading hand at the small of Chris's back. "Come on."

*

"Oh my God . . . oh my God _yes_ . . ."

Zach coughs, a bit red in the face. "It's uh, it's just a library."

Chris staggers over to the nearest bookshelf. "Not 'just a library', dude. Jesus . . ." Chris doesn't think he's ever been in the library this impressive—sure, Berkeley's may technically have been bigger, but Zach's was by far more . . . elaborate. Gold-leafed molding crawling up the walls, nearly gaudy but ultimately beautiful—lovely shadows and shocks of sunlight to make it shine, highlight where it's chipped off. Disjointed rainbows of books wrapping around the shelved walls. Impossibly high windows and plush old world furniture and it's truly a struggle for Chris not to leap onto that book ladder and sing about it.

It's then that Chris notices Zach's staring at him. Chris clears his throat, folds his arms. "It's cool," he says neutrally. He is _not_ ogling that complete works of Shakespeare over there like it's a common strumpet.

Zach's repressing his grin rather badly. "They won't bite," he says. " _I_ won't bite," he adds.

"Heh." Chris pulls a book off the shelf at random. Jane Eyre.

"You into whiny chicks who angst over propriety versus passion?"

"What? Oh. Nah, not really my thing," Chris says distantly, flipping pages. When was the last time he'd held an actual book? Limited internet was one thing, but the brittle feel of pages, the smell of leather, the intimacy of knowing someone else has read it before you, savored the words the same as you, curled up with that same sense of excitement to see what happened next . . .

"So what is your type? Six foot tall blonde girls?"

Chris shrugs. "Hair color is of no importance."

"I was more concerned about the whole gender thing, but okay, that's good to know. I guess."

"No, I know. I'm straight, but . . . I dunno, I guess I try to look at every new experience as art. Like prison, I don't know, I'd come to think of it as sort of adventure."

"I see . . ."

"No, dude, listen— life is always a prison, it's just that most people can't actually see the bars."

"Mm," Zach says. "That was lame," he adds.

"Shut up. But, no, anyway . . . I mean, I'm not just gonna say no to an early release. I mean, you seemed nice . . ."

"You've only just met me, but fine. Thanks, I think?"

"Let me rephrase that: you seemed legitimately real, according to Wikipedia."

"Okay, you know what a wiki is, right?"

*

That night, at dinner in a somber, gleaming wooden dining hall, Chris says, "So the whole off-limits hallway thing? _Kin_ da Beauty and the Beast, man. Just saying."

"Are. Are you calling me a beast?"

"Ah shit, no, I mean—well, I mean, you _are_ pretty hairy . . . no, shit, stop D-facing me, man. I can't do words, okay?"

Zach stars impassively for awhile, then turns his attention back to his food. "Beauty and the Beast has a pretty fucked up message, you know. Like, the subtextual message."

"Oh?"

"Yeah—when you think about it, it's really the story of a woman staying with an abusive man just because she believes deep down that he's a good person. Which is okay, but unfortunately it doesn't necessarily follow that life imitates Disney."

"Heh." Chris pushes fancy food around on his fancy plate. "So, what's with the title? Viscount of Aubrey? Who's a fucking viscount in the year 2012?"

Zach sighs, clearly sick of explaining this. "It's just a courtesy styling thing, like . . . okay, you know Countess LuAnn on the Real Housewives?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, so it's—wait, really?"

Chris bites his lip. Then, "Yes."

"Right." Zach's staring. "So, as I was saying . . . Sorry— _how_ were you not beaten to a pulp in prison, exactly?"

"Okay, can we drop this?"

"Yeah, okay." Zach's still staring. "Sorry."

"Nah, it's cool."

They eat in silence for a bit.

"So tell me, Zach, _can_ money buy you class?"

Zach laughs.

*

Later, in a dark, atmospheric parlor lit only by the flicker of fireplace, they drink stupendously expensive brandy and Zach starts to loosen up, seems to remember he'd brought Chris here for a reason. And instead of being anxious about this, Chris finds he's curious to see what Zach does next. Zach seems like a stand up fellow, and Chris figures he can suck it up and let himself be ravished or whatever.

It just so happens that this oversaturated lighting is quite possibly made for Zach. Or maybe it's just that the shadows have toned down his extremely bright clothes a little . . . the point is, Chris can think of worse things than getting off with a perfectly nice, perfectly-lit fellow Housewives addict.

Chris waits for a lull in the conversation, then leans in and . . .

"Wait." Zach's dodged him expertly. "Wait. Ugh, God, I feel really weird about this . . . "

"No, it's okay, I actually don't feel as weird about it now that I know you're not the homosexual Hugh Hefner, so . . . it's totally fine, like . . . " Zach's reluctance is just _compelling_ , now . . . Chris leans in again and . . .

Denied. Zach runs a hand through his hair restlessly and, uh, _compellingly_ . . . Third time's a charm, right?

Oof.

"Dude, you don't have to _literally_ push me away."

"Apparently I do."

Meanwhile, the ridiculousness of the situation settles in.

Chris laughs. "This is kind of the opposite of what I was expecting, you know."

Zach laughs a bit too, can't quite look at Chris. "Look, I'm gonna level with you. I was hammered when I wrote that proposal. My manservant just found it and sent it out on the Aubrey stationary because he thinks I'm lonely or whatever . . . "

"Oh. Um." Chris takes a delicate sip of wine, not sure if he's hurt or flattered to be the star of someone's drunken fantasy. "Manservant?"

Zach waves it off. "Oh, I'm sure he'll sniff you out soon enough," he says. "The thing is, I got a bit obsessed with you during the trial— _God_ this is mortifying—and I may have gone a bit overboard . . . well, _clearly_. The trouble started when you gave that interview for Dateline, and it was all high def and you . . . look, you are aware of how frequently you lick your lips, right? It's ludicrous. I'm only human, dammit, and yes, you're a fine specimen, but what really cinched it was when you start talking."

Chris is caught between preening and squirming in embarrassment. "My sexarific baritone," he says knowingly.

Zach gives him an odd look. "No . . . well, yeah, I guess. It's more that you said 'spurious'. You called the prosecution _spurious_."

"So?"

"Vocabulary is hot."

Chris laughs, not to laugh at him, but because he's always secretly thought so, too. "You're awesome."

*

Chris is busy dreaming of rainbows and kittens, probably, which would explain his dismay when he is yanked unceremoniously out of his bed by a madman.

"Just who do you think you are?" The man demands, panting with effort. "You can't just waltz in here and reject the Master like that! He has a fragile constitution—his poor lonely heart can't take much more!" He pauses, peers closer at Chris, way up in his personal space. "Oh my God, they really _are_ cerulean!"

"Uh . . . "

A second man yanks him back. "Please pay him no mind, Mr. Pine," he says. "He's just a bit over excited to see a new face."

The first man shifts suddenly back into glaring-mode, then growls, "If you break the Master's heart, I will end you."

The second man smiles a terrifying little smile and pats his shoulder. "He really will."

Chris thinks about baking away, but then again, where would he go? "Okay, so, exactly who the fuck are you guys?"

The first, more obviously unstable man beams. "I'm Noah, the viscount's dogsbody."

Chris frowns. "He said manservant."

"Well, that's not strictly accurate, actually," says the second man. "Then again, neither is 'dogsbody'. He's more a valet, but he doesn't really act like one, does he? I, however, am the butler. You may call me Mr Harold."

"Ah. Okay, Harold, so—"

"You may call me Mr Harold."

"Right." Chris stretches. "Well, I'm fucking famished, and I don't know where the kitchen is, so can we take a walk or . . . ?"

"Yes let's!" Noah barks out. "Come on, come on—follow me!" He snags Chris by the arm and drags him out of the room before anyone's had time to react.

*

Eventually it occurs to Chris to ask, "Are we even allowed in here? It's so . . . pristine. Well, it was." He leans against a granite-topped counter in the apparently five-star kitchen and watches Noah and Harold root through industrial fridges and oversized bread closets to present him with foodstuffs at random. Chris would've nicked a bagel a long time ago, but at this point he just wonders how long they'll keep it up.

"I shouldn’t fret about it, Mr Pine. The kitchen is at your disposal, as are we," Harold says. "Should you need anything, you may simply press one of the call buttons— there is at least one in every room—and either Noah or myself will then assist you."

"Awesome . . . so, what are the onion rings like, here?"

Harold's nose twitches. "You've a fully stocked gourmet kitchen at your disposal, and your main concern is onion rings?"

"Ooh try the gray stuff!" Noah begs. "It's delic—"

Harold bats the spoon out of his hand. "It really isn't," he says.

"Anything I need, eh?" Chris muses. "Well, riddle me this—what the hell is in that super ominous hallway by the library?"

"I'm afraid that is strictly off limits," Harold says, then smiles. It's really not a nice smile.

"Yeah," Noah adds. "The Master wouldn't be too happy if you stumbled across—"

"What wouldn't I be happy about?"

The three of them jump, Chris upsetting a fancy rich person kitchen gadget and Noah spilling the gray stuff everywhere. If this were an anime, Chris would be cringing with an enormous sweat drop hovering by his head.

Not that Chris knew anything about anime. Or, more correctly, manga.

 _Look_ —he was an artist. He was supposed to know shit about shit.

"'Sup, Zach?" Chris says. "Sorry for breaking and entering but then, you know, I _am_ a convicted felon, so you should've seen it coming, really."

"No no, it's cool," Zach says. He's sleepy and rumpled, and his hair is (adorably) hopeless. "Didn't mean to interrupt your little song and dance routine. I was just trying to find you for your fitting."

"Oh, okay," Chris says. "Wait, what?"

*

"The fuck is this supposed to be, Zach."

"It's fashionable!"

"It's _striped_."

"It's Ralph Lauren." Zach pinches the bridge of his nose. "Okay, okay, so what would you normally wear?"

"I don't know, like, a plaid shirt and red shoes and a New York Yankees hat? And a cardigan, obviously."

"Uh . . ."

"What?"

"Let's just move on to the jeans."

"What jeans? These are jeggings—no, _leggings_ —no, fucking _jean stockings_."

Zach sniffs. "I manage."

*

Chris sits alone in the vast, silent library. He imagines this is what it's like to be a girlfriend in the Playboy Mansion. All boredom and no sex.

Books were excellent for killing time, engrossing and artistic in their own cerebral way, but there's just something about visual art—the jolt of significance that pains you beautifully, whether you truly understand the meaning behind it or not. Words couldn't compare to that one clear moment of epiphany in your first impression of a piece. With words, you could think and appreciate the architecture of it, the allusions and the clues—with images, you did nothing but ride the involuntary impulse of reaction.

Chris feels eyes on him, slowly lowers his book and is met with the sight of Noah staring at him, tapping his foot frantically.

"Uh. 'Sup?"

"You rang?!" Noah says, in a spot on impression of the exact opposite of Lurch. "The bell!"

"Oh . . . " Chris lifts his arm off the side table and releases the clandestine call button. "Sorry, didn't mean to."

"It's okay, it's _okay_ , Mr. Pine!" Noah laughs. "But since I'm already here, can I get you anything? Can I? Anything at all? Come on, I really don't mind—I live to serve!"

"You sure do," Chris says, trying to sink further into his chair. It's times like these Chris would _prefer_ to be a member of Hef's harem. "Some . . . food, I guess?"

"Food!"

"Yeah. Uh, I don't know, surprise me."

Chris waits til Noah's safely out of earshot to make a break for it.

He finds Zach in what can only be described as 'the study'—dark wood panels and those green lamps and a general air of stuffiness.

" _Bored_ ," Chris informs him.

"Well," Zach says, carefully putting his newspaper down, and really, who reads the actual newspaper? "I _gave_ you a library . . ."

" _I_ know, but there's only so many ejaculations one can stomach."

". . ."

"I've been reading 19th century fiction, Zach," Chris clarifies. "Not servicing your household staff."

Zach is impassive. "You really have a problem with blurting out the wrong thing, don't you?"

"A bit. But at least I'm not a stalker like you. Oh, that came out wrong . . ."

Zach raises his eyebrows significantly. "Stalker? You should talk, bro."

"Shut up. I'm a new man!" Chris bounces on his feet, antsy. "What are you doing in here, anyway? Angsting over the financial crisis? Being staunchly, cynically removed from society?"

"I'm not _cynical_."

"No, I mean, not like, _overtly_. You know."

Zach just stares. Cynically, in Chris's estimation.

"You're so, I dunno, Rochesterly."

"Thought Brontë wasn't your thing, and you'd had enough ejaculations," Zach says. Chris valiantly resists headdesking. "Anyway hadn't you decided I was the Beast?"

"Yeah, well, I don't know the Beast's name, so. I dub thee Rochester."

Zach snorts. "And are you gonna pine for me?"

"Fuck yeah. Pine's my midd—well."

Zach laughs again.

*

Zach comes searching for him, this time. He walks right over to Chris where he's all snuggled up in a chair in the library, steals his book and holds it ransom. "Look, you wanna play a board game or something?"

"I don't like crap games with barons and earls," Chris says.

"Tramp," Zach says, which surprises a laugh out of Chris. "Anyway it's all good—I'm a viscount."

"Yeah, what the fuck does that even mean?"

"I told you, it's just titles. And I'm really not a fan of labels, so."

Chris relents. "Fine." Puts his book aside and stands. "Lay on, Macduff."

"And damn'd be him that first cries, 'Hold, enough!'"

"Ha." Who even _knows_ that? Reality TV, jazz, _and_ Shakespeare? Oh my. Fucking Renaissance man . . .

They play Scrabble for hours, literally. Noah and Harold come and go, failing to convince either of them to eat or maybe stop playing _on the floor_ in a fucking mansion.

Zach had played 'heath', a few turns back. Now, Chris is poised to strike.

"Heathcliff," Zach says flatly.

" _Totally_ a word."

"Nope," Zach says, plucks Chris's tiles off the board and volleys them precisely at Chris's face. "Anyway, don't you know that mixing Brontës is in very poor taste? I know these things—I had etiquette class and an actual governess, not even kidding."

"Psh, I am well aware. However, the Brontë sisters are collectively in poor taste, themselves, so I am decidedly unrepentant."

"And yet you continue to read it. You gonna embark on a collected works of Jane Austen, next?"

Chris laughs. "No, dude. Actually I'm just grabbing stuff at random like . . ." He grabs one off the shelf at random, now. "Jung, apparently. Why the fuck do you even have this?"

Zach shrugs. "Don't look at me—I didn't stock this place. I'm just a professional descendant."

*

And then one magical day, Zach has a vaguely important business meeting in the city.

Chris swears he hadn't taken this route through the mansion with mischievous intent, but as he rounds the corner by the Forbidden Hallway, he finds Harold completely, hilariously asleep on the job, practically falling out of his chair and emitting delicate little snores.

It would just be tragic for Chris to ignore such an opportunity.

Chris creeps down the hallway, half-expecting cobwebs and moonlight despite the fact that it's ten in the morning. He passes a few mostly empty rooms, clearly used for storage now and gutted of their finer points to gloss up the rest of the mansion. There aren't any lights on, and Chris finds his way by traveling between elusive splotches of sun from the occasional uncovered window. The air is so grey wherever it isn't deeply yellow from daylight—gorgeous, spooky contrasts for background as he makes his way toward a conspicuously closed door that brings the hall to a dead end.

The door opens with a lengthy creak at Chris's urging, and beyond it is a room even more shadowy than the hallway. Chris pads inside, ducking under a heavy draping curtain and trying to quell his irrational haunted house instinct for dread.

Apparently this is the place that broken furniture comes to die—it litters the gloomy room and trips Chris up at every opportunity.

In the middle, flanked by hazardous shards of the tables of yesteryear, is a conspicuous pedestal. On it are a pillow and a wax-sealed envelope. Chris snatches it up.

> this is my deep dark secret

"Huh." He tears it open. Inside is another, painstakingly folded paper, which has written on it, in extremely mocking letters:

> you've been punked, chris.

"Fucker."

*

That night, at dinner:

"So . . . " Zach begins. "Harold tells me you've discovered my deep dark secret . . . "

Chris tries to be mad, but it instead comes out as a grin in response to Zach's. "Fuck you, man. You're a sneaky bastard."

"Thanks."

After a few silent moments of pasta, Chris says, "So, what is it really?"

"What's what?"

"Your deep dark secret."

Zach laughs, flash of canines and scrunch of his eyes that makes them sparkle startlingly. "Uh, people don't have those in real life."

"Yeah huh. Come on—I'll tell me mine if you tell me yours." He's not sure _why_ he intones that suggestively as fuck, but it's too late now, so.

Zach smile fades from giggly into smoldering—has to do with the candlelight and the downward tilt of his head, and most especially the velvety way he says, "Shoot."

Chris desperately hopes that the blush creeping up his neck hasn't manifested too blatantly. What was it about this guy? Was it just because the idea was there? Was it just the context, the understanding that Zach must have wanted him at some point, and that in an alternate universe they could've been fucking by now?

Or, perhaps more distressingly, was it really that Zach was in fact adorable?

Chris clears his throat. " _Well_. It's not like, a _dark_ secret. It's not embarrassing or weird. It's just . . . regrets, I guess. I wish I hadn't sold out, career wise. I used to have all these big ideas, standards and ideals—I was going to be an _artist_ , you know? I was only gonna do _significant_ work, like . . . I dunno. That's what happens in life, like, that's normal. We all grow up enamored of Being Somebody, but then adulthood hits and you have bills, and you take the easy way out because it's only temporary, so that's okay . . . except it's not temporary—it's just what living is. The deep dark secret part of this comes from how you're secretly too afraid to ever _really_ try for greatness. No matter what excuses the world or your instincts for self-preservation offer up, you're just too afraid of, you know, failure.

"And it's not even failure itself, really. It's that if you do fail, that will confirm any doubts you've ever about yourself, or that anyone else has ever had about you. Every bully or meaningless jab from your siblings, every unjust thing that's ever happened to you. I don't want to have to look in the mirror and face my flaws, so I just try to take life as it comes and be okay with that. If every scary thing is really just an adventure and it doesn't _really_ matter, then I can deal with that."

Chris had stopped looking at Zach somewhere during that, had instead studied the limits of the candlelight that washed the table, had twisted his pasta up with his fork until it was a tangled cheesy mess. When he does look at Zach, he feels relieved more than sheepish, because Zach says:

"No, I get it. I guess my deep dark secret is kind of similar. I . . . worry about never making enough of a difference. I worry about not doing things that are worthwhile. I go to charity events and endorse foundations and things but, like . . . you don't see the effects. You don't get to see firsthand that you actually made a difference for someone. And I guess you can probably read a lot into why I made you my project, now . . . "

"Project: Damsel in Distress?"

"That's the codename, yeah," Zach says. "But like. I dunno, I'm afraid of waking up one day and realizing I haven't done enough when I could have—that I've just had fun and half-assed _real_ morality."

Chris eats to kill time, and to defuse all this Sharing in the air. "Listen, just, for the record? I much prefer your half-assed morality to a jail cell. Just saying."

Zach laughs. "Well, good. And just for the record, no one's stopping you from pursuing whatever pipe dreams you want to. In fact, here—I'll be your patron. And I'm commissioning that you do whatever the fuck you want."

Cute _and_ he listens? _Damn_ . . .

*

"Chris!" Noah howls from the hallway, bounds into the library and makes a beeline for Chris, who is minding his own business and reading on a velvet chaise. "I've been looking _all over_ for you—I was afraid you'd disappeared forever or something! Anyway, I have a project and I could use your help."

"Uh, okay. What?"

"I am attempting to redecorate the house."

"So . . . why do you need me?"

"Well, you have a creative eye, don't you? Let me put it this way—your aesthetic can't be worse than Zach's."

"I guess . . . " The place really was atrociously decorated for a gay man's mansion.

. . . Chris wonders how long it'll be until he slips and accidentally calls Zach a fag or something.

"Come on," Noah whines, looking at Chris with puppy dog eyes. "You do seem pretty bored."

Chris puts his Pride and Prejudice down on the end table. "You got me there."

Hours later, Harold finds them in the north wing trying to fit a mattress through doorframe.

"Oh, Harold!" Noah's practically quivering with excitement. "You're here! Great—if you can just grab that tea set with the chip in it—"

"Just what do you think you're doing," Harold says.

Noah's face falls. "Re . . . redecorating . . . "

"Oh, come on, Harold," Chris says.

" _Mr_ Harold."

Chris rolls his eyes. "It's like, you know, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. Except backwards. I'm Thom, Noah's Jai—you can be Carson!"

"Right." Harold tilts his head. " _How_ were you not violently killed in prison?"

"My irrepressible charisma?"

"Indeed?" Harold purrs. "Mr. Pine, would you care to join me in the billiards room?"

"Nah." Especially because he refused to acknowledge the existence of a 'billiards room'.

"Perhaps you didn't hear me—would you _care_ to _join_ me _immediately_?" He claws at Chris's arm until he lets go of the mattress.

Chris sighs and follows Harold down the hall. Noah looks on in distress.

"Am I in _trou_ -ble?" Chris says, shutting a massive door behind them. "Ooh, am I going to get grounded or . . . hold on, I'm already _on parole_ , you know . . . "

Harold's just standing there unblinkingly. "My Lord clearly fancies you, and you have done nothing but brush him aside for the duration of your stay with us. I would simply like to remind you of your contract, and ask you to please consider his feelings and stop leading him on."

Chris laughs. "Look, my contract has an elaborate clause all about how this whole thing is meant to be voluntary and, you know, consensual. Anyway, we just didn't click, and Zach's cool with it, so like, take it up with him or something." Chris frowns. "So wait, is 'My Lord' the correct way to address him or whatever?"

"It is," Harold says. "However he apparently finds it 'creepy'."

"Yeah, but isn't 'Master' kinda creepier?"

"I don't pretend to know his thoughts; I simply cater to my Master's needs."

Chris leers. Harold sighs.

"Dude, chill out," Chris says. "Why do you have to be such a pussy all the time?"

Harold sighs more pointedly, turns to leave—

On impulse: "So, like . . . _is_ Zach still interested me? Is that why you're giving me the overprotective father treatment?"

Harold raises an eyebrow. "Sorry—I thought you didn't _care_?"

"No no no. No. Just you know, his feelings. I care about. Not like _that_."

"Of course not, Mr Pine. I would never be so presumptuous."

"Yeah." Chris hopes a healthy pause here will make Harold forget how incriminating he's being. "So like, what's his type? Wilting flower? Bright and bubbly? Or smoldering temptress? I'm just curious, like . . ."

Harold only smiles and leaves, coattails swishing.

*

"So I've been thinking," Zach says all of a sudden. Chris does his best to turn his startled jump into a totally normal part of turning in his chair to face him.

"Congrats?"

"I've been _thinking_ ," Zach continues, crossing the library at a leisurely pace. "I prefer the Beauty and the Beast metaphor, because you really are very Belle-like. Nose in a book . . . head up in the clouds. She's a funny girl, that Chris."

"Probs because I'm _not a girl_ ," Chris says.

"Mm. What a _puzzle_ to the rest of us is Chris . . ."

"Yeah, well, at least I don't actually know Disney song lyrics." He totally does, though.

Zach smiles at him, and all Chris can think is that it's riveting. The way he is is riveting, the way his shoulders are and the way he walks and is so quiet but clearly always thinking and slightly serious but slightly wry, too. And Chris wants to crush him against a wall sometimes, and Jesus Christ, when had Chris gotten so gay, anyway?

"So have Noah and Harold showed you the grounds, yet?"

"Nope."

"Ah." Zach nods to himself, folds his arms on the back of a chair before flashing a darkly delicious look at Chris. "Well, it's nice out . . ."

The stateliness of the topiaries made Chris feel like they ought to have a chaperone. In fact he deeply suspected Harold was silently on the prowl, even now.

. . . Maybe he ought to lay off on the Victorian novels.

It's near the rose garden that Chris can't take it anymore. "Dude, cut it out," he says.

"What?"

Chris gestures at him. "You being all brooding with your eyebrows and wearing hats so fucking ugly that it's cool."

"I . . . I don't do that."

Chris snorts. "Yeah you do."

Chris couldn't seem to stop contemplating this—Zach, in That Way—and he'd had ample time in prison to contemplate this sort of thing, so what did _that_ mean? Was Zachary Quinto just so unbelievably magnetic that he turned unsuspecting straight men gay with a single, smoldering look?

. . . Zach's smiling at him, for him, and it's innocent and apologetic and teasing at once, warm with a dangerous cast to his eyes. . . .

Apparently so.

It's true that Chris had missed being outdoors rather sickeningly much, but that's also why he's been avoiding the grounds. It was a transition, and the culture shock of interacting with non-criminals alone was quite enough for now. Not to mention the abruptly luxurious standard of living. Or his latent homosexuality.

"So who keeps this up, anyway?"

"I don't know," Zach says, lets his fingertips graze a passing plant. "Harold takes care of all the estate stuff—it's apparently part of his _duties_. Whatever. But I see Noah out here digging stuff up from time to time. Come on." He takes Chris by the hand and leads him past a copse of magnolias. They're sickly-sweet in the same way that Chris's stomach flips at the brush of Zach's skin against his.

"Oh, uh, okay," Chris says. What big hands Zach has. "Yeah." Not too warm, not too rough, just electrifying when they came in contact with you and twined fingers with yours so easily. "Ahaha, what an interesting shrub that is. What is it, a hydrangea? Fascinating stuff. God it is nice out, isn't it? God I just love gardens and flowers and all this shit. Love it. Look at those blue-looking ones, just awesome stuff, yeah. Anytime you wanna talk about the blue-looking ones, I'm your man, and don't get me sta—"

It's then that Chris trips rather spectacularly over a divot like one of the Three Stooges.

Zach attempts to catch him as smoothly as possible, but it turns out more awkward than debonair, and Chris trips him up a bit, too, so they end up stumbling against each other pathetically until they do finally land in an especially pokey green thing.

Zach is essentially pinning Chris against it, one arm around Chris's waist and the other grabbing at flimsy branches above Chris's head. Chris can see the darker ring of brown circling his irises from here, can breathe his overpriced cologne, can taste the vibration of Zach's voice forming Chris's name in a whisper as he leans . . .

Harold.

"Good lord, _do_ you realize how much it costs to keep the grounds up properly? And in this economy! Just, just, _get up_ , would you . . . honestly . . . "

And Harold doesn't know it, but Chris has mentally declared a secret war.

*

Chris sits in his lavish bedroom that night, book in hand in bored out of his mind—there's only so much reading you can do before the words start to garble together, making it that much easier for your own claustrophobic thoughts to steal the limelight.

This was supposed to be an adventure, wasn't it? He's been completely okay with whoring himself out to complete stranger, before, but once he'd actually met Zach and realized he was a real person with a personality and opinions and like, _real_ desires, it had gone from being an easy way out or a game or whatever to a real life situation with someone else's feelings, with Zach's snark and adorableness and quiet isolation involved. You couldn't just slap some optimism on everything that was unnerving and call it a game and only then be able to deal with it. This hadn't _stayed_ easy.

As if to underscore his train of thought, he hears footsteps—Zach's, he can tell—echoing out in the hallway.

Chris always took the easy way out. He should try the opposite, sometime.

Chris throws the book aside without marking his place, struggles out of a pointlessly expensive robe and dashes out into the hallway after Zach much too dramatically.

"Zach! Hey, Mr Beverly Hills Viscount, I'm talking to you!"

Zach stops, turns to face him and arches one eyebrow rather extraordinarily. "Uh, what the fuck's the matter with you?" His hair is tucked behind his ears, wet around the hairline because he's just washed his face, which is residually reddish. He's wearing unsophisticated sweatpants and an inexplicably neon shirt, which is threadbare and wonderfully clingy. Chris wants to find out just how strong Zach is, wants to know how hard his biceps are and how soft his skin is, wants to know if he'd let his eyes go predatory or if they'd flutter and beg.

"Ha, so much, like, don't even get me started, there . . . " Chris slows from his sprint disjointedly, heavy lopsided steps as he approaches Zach, but even as he's telling his brain he's supposed to stop walking, now, this impulse of wanting to _know_ is just too strong.

Zach's eyes go big, takes a step back when Chris fails to stop at a respectable distance and instead gets a hold of Zach's shoulders and backs him into the nearest wall, which is, admittedly, a bit of a trek in the needlessly wide hallway with its pillars and vases and things—Zach blinks at him in shock, and then his mouth parts on a gasp, and then he starts to smile wickedly, but Chris erases it quick, nudges his face against Zach's and into a kiss.

"I thought you were straight," Zach mumbles.

Chris pulls back to cup Zach's jaw, thumbs over his wet, gasping mouth obsessively. "Yeah, well. My internal monologue's been describing you as 'adorable' on a daily basis, so I figured that was a sign . . . " Chris can't deal with Zach's mouth anymore, has to kiss it immediately. He captures Zach's wrists to hold against the wall, hold him still, licks back into his mouth.

Zach makes an approving sound in the back of his throat, tilts his head to deepen it and sends incidental heatwaves racing through Chris's bloodstream. Chris grinds his hips against Zach's because he's too pathetically turned on not to, actually, and Zach is just as hard, arcs up into it and just that tiny tease of friction becomes overwhelming.

"Bed," Chris gasps. "My bed. Uh . . . now would be good."

Zach nods, twists his hands around to encircle Chris's wrists instead, first stroking at the backs of his hands and then gripping and leading Chris determinedly down the hall.

Chris had planned on kissing Zach against the door once it had slammed shut behind them, but instead Zach shoves him across the room, follows with sucking kisses to Chris's neck until they've toppled neatly onto the vast bed.

Zach pins Chris's arms above his head, leaves him with a devastatingly thorough kiss before trailing his mouth down his throat, bites at his collarbone and pushes Chris's shirt up in order to lick down his chest in an excitingly random manner before taking one of Chris's nipples into his mouth.

"Ahshit . . . "

"Shh," Zach whispers, hot breath over moist sensitive skin and Chris just curses again, arcs up into the attention. Zach takes pity, licks lightly at Chris's nipple, then sucks harder and licks it again and it's too much sensation—Zach seems to know that, however, kisses his way over to the other nipple and gives it the same treatment, reaches down to palm Chris's hardening cock through his sweatpants and Chris can't stop straining his body up for more, can't _breathe_ . . .

"Don't move," Zach tells him, and Chris shivers at the edge of command in his voice, goes still and relishes the idea of denial that's settling in his stomach to mingle with arousal and nerves and unbidden scraps of emotion.

Zach shimmies down Chris's body, yanks off his sweatpants and boxers and Chris swears he's gonna do as he's told. He's good. He'll just lie here and not concentrate on how turned on he is, he'll just ignore Zach tearing off his own shirt in his periphery and not make a fool out of himself or seem too easy or girly or whatever . . .

Zach tongue—hot, wide, and tantalizing from the base of Chris's cock to the tip, swirling mercilessly there before sucking him into his mouth.

"Ohgodohgod, yeah _shit_ like that . . . _God_ yeah just do that . . . _fuck_ . . ."

Zach makes a terribly smug sound before taking Chris in deep, sucking wonderfully on the upstroke. He pumps the base of Chris's cock with one hand while the other cups his balls vaguely and oh goddammit, Chris will not survive this. He casts around for something else to think about—intricately tiled ceiling, possibly priceless artwork, and that wardrobe with knobs like eyes that gave Chris the uncomfortable feeling it was watching them, and that was a pretty effective mood-killer, but then:

"Chris," Zach says, relentlessly richly voiced, jerking his cock adamantly and looking up at him under chunks of dark displaced hair and lovely lashes, eyes gone predatory . . . "Stop resisting. I want you to come for me." Takes Chris's cock lazily back into his mouth again before Chris can answer, and Chris's unable to look away or breathe or speak, so fucking hot . . .

Zach holds Chris's hips still when they start to nudge up of their own volition, moves his head up and down, not quite fast enough, but incorporating his tongue so mind-meltingly well that it doesn't even matter, and the restraint of it only makes it that much better. Chris feels orgasm approaching, grapples with 500 thread count sheets and tenses from head to toe while Zach keeps sucking him, gasps out, "Just _more_ , God please so close . . ." and Zach bobs a bit faster, grips the base of Chris's cock and pumps in time, harder and harder and perfect and _yes_ . . .

Chris blinks at the ceiling a few skipped seconds later, awash in endorphins and sweat and the wonderfully scandalous smell of sex. Zach looms up over him, smug as fuck, and Chris laughs weakly at him. "I wanna make a joke about being a slut-tastic catamite but I seem to have misplaced my brain. It would've been extremely smart sounding, though, and probably would've referenced some Classical Greek something or other. I blame you, you . . . you _brain stealer_."

Zach laughs, but his face is flushed and his eyes are heated. Chris grins, flips them over and kisses Zach back into the mountain of pillows by the headboard. He starts to slide down and—

Zach pulls him back up. "Don't bother, I'm so fucking hard, Chris. Just—" He takes Chris's hand and presses it between his legs. "God, just . . ."

Chris spits into his hand, pushes Zach's sweatpants down enough to take hold of his cock and smear saliva over his length, still straddling him because the sight of Zach laid out and begging like that . . . He leans in to say into Zach's ear, "How close are you, My Lord?" Starts to jerk his cock.

"Oh, that's creepy, come on, don't—"

"Oh yeah, that's right—you'd rather be called Master, right?" Speeds up the pace, now. "How close are you, _Master_?"

Zach whines delightfully at that, so Chris kisses down to his neck, then over to his mouth to bite at his swollen lips.

"Tell me."

"So fucking close, _fuck_ , Chris, just, nnnggg just keep, just. Oh _fuck_ . . ."

Chris kisses him, pumps his cock harder, faster at the direction of Zach's muffled moans, kisses him right through his climax and keeps his forehead stuck sweatily against Zach's while he comes down from it, panting and gorgeous and clinging to Chris vaguely.

*

Zach sneaks up on him in the library and says, "Oh damn . . . pictures of _books_? TMZ is gonna wet their pants over those."

"Shut up, dude," Chris says, sets the camera carefully on an end table. "I am a _reformed_ paparazzo. I done my time, yo. Continued harassment is not fair play."

"Yeah, it kind of is. Considering."

Chris laughs. "Fine, on behalf of poor, innocent celebrities everywhere, you may continue to harass me. As long as that includes the sex."

"Of course it includes the sex. Come on."

"Anyway, you _do know_ that I didn't sell those photos in the first place. I was (ha ha) _framed_. William Shatner had a restraining order against a completely different paparazzo—as if 'Well he was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans' is legitimately damning evidence. The guy just looked like me and was also named Chris, I think. Definitely wasn't trying to fuck the Shat over—I'm just trying to make a living, goddammit. And honestly, I'm like the runt of the paparazzi litter—the best pics I ever got were of Anne Hathaway at the royal wedding, and those kinda sucked. I _did_ get a few of LiLo, but that was before she went _really_ batshit, so nobody wanted them . . ."

" _Reformed_ , you said."

"Shut _up_. Here, let me do you against the bookshelf . . . oh my God seriously how old are you, I didn't mean it like _that_ , dude. Come on."

Zach sighs, walks over to strike a pose against the bookshelf. "I don't know that this is exactly what your patron had in mind."

"Oh?" Chris snaps some photos, and it's like a documentary on the progression of Zach's gradual grin. Chris can't help but grin back. "And what does my patron have in mind?"

"Well . . . the doing me against the bookshelf part was a good start, don't you think?" Zach gives him a sizzling, sidelong look, goes to fold his arms sexily but ends up gets his watch caught in his shirt and cursing and stumbling around. He is fucking adorable.

Chris puts the damn camera away.

*


End file.
